


When I Saw You

by waywardrose



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Hair Washing, Post-Canon, Reader-Insert, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: In his fantasies, he always has both hands.Which he knows is ironic.
Relationships: Clyde Logan/Reader, Clyde Logan/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	When I Saw You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BonnieAndClydeLogan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonnieAndClydeLogan/gifts).



> “When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.”
> 
> —Giuseppe Verdi, _Falstaff_ , Act 2, Part 2

* * *

In his fantasies, he always has both hands.

Which he knows is ironic.

Because in a lot of his fantasies he’s never the one doing the touching. It’s always hands on him, mouths on him. Sometimes he thinks about being fingered. Sometimes he’s restrained and touched until he’s begging for relief. Fingertips trail over his skin, tweak his nipples, follow the valley between his torso and thigh. Palms cup his balls and curl around his erection to pull an orgasm from him that’s as easy as breathing.

Sometimes he thinks of fingers tracing his lips, gently mapping out his face. He is caressed and seen. Loved in a way he’s never heard of.

Sometimes it scares him. Sometimes it makes him feel worse than when he began.

Sometimes it’s a pain he craves.

But now he can’t think of anonymous hands on his body. All he can think about is you.

And he thinks what he’s doing is weird despite pumping a few dollops of lotion onto his palm and pillowing his head on his useless left arm. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. Though it’s been an itch under his skin all day, like it’s deep in the muscles or sinew. He’d have to claw his way in to dig it out.

He’d come in for his usual six-week trim, but Hair We R had been invaded by an upset bridal party. Mel was swamped trying to fix the bride’s style. He knew better than to interrupt that.

Then you, the new girl, came out of the backroom with a stack of towels. You smiled at him—

His blood heats at the thought, and he smears lotion over his erection.

—and greeted him. Mellie spun to him and said in no uncertain terms that you would give him a wash and trim. You’d ushered him to the sinks and wouldn’t let him help with the warm towels. You’d sat him down before fastening a cape around his neck. Your fingers had lingered. You’d guided his head back and gave him a smile. You’d complimented his hair as the water warmed.

His cock jerks in his fist at the memory.

Then your hands were in his hair, combing it away from his face. Your touch felt so much different than Mellie’s. Your shorter nails dragged across his scalp. The water temperature was perfect. Your face had been serene as you worked the lather through his hair.

Your soft belly had rested against his upper arm as you worked at the back of his head. He’d forced himself not to move. He didn’t even know if he breathed. Your bare forearm had been so close to his face. He’d had the urge to press his nose to your skin to smell you.

It had been then he’d realized his dick was hard under the tent of the cape.

His cheeks must’ve flushed, because you’d asked if the water was too hot.

“No, ma'am.”

“Good,” you’d practically purred and began rinsing.

Your smile was beautiful. You’d gently thumbed suds from his forehead.

_This is weird._

But he can’t forget it.

God, he really can’t. And neither can his dick.

His memory becomes a mess of sensation. Your fingers in his hair, your sweet touch, your gaze meeting his in the mirror. Even the snick of the scissors.

He spreads his thighs and rolls his hips. Your hands would feel better. He tugs at his cock faster. You reaching around and rubbing him through his jeans. He shivers at the thought of your breath tickling his damp neck. Your breasts pressing against his back. He twists his hand around the head and groans.

His balls are so tight. He wishes he could massage them while jerking off.

You could do that for him.

“Want me to blow you dry?” you’d asked.

His stomach swoops as his hips jolt. A wave of seizing pleasure plows through him from deep inside until it spurts out of him. He gasps as it pumps in time with his heart. Come splatters on his stomach and pubic hair. He wants to watch you gather it up, lick your fingers clean, and kiss him.

Instead, he finds his discarded underwear to wipe himself clean. He yanks the covers over his hips and turns onto his side to finally sleep.

* * *

He wants to catch you after-hours. He’d seen on Facebook you’d only been at the salon a month. He’s sure you’d be closing, sweeping the floor or wiping down the stations. The sign on the door would be turned to Closed.

He’d back you against the reception counter with hands at your waist. He’d hold your jaw to make you meet his gaze. Your eyes would burn for him. He’d slide his other hand down your hip to your thigh and up again.

“Go on,” he’d whisper.

Then you’d touch him, start right above the belt around his waist. Your hands would trail up his sides and over his pecs. He wonders if you’d tease his nipples. He likes that. Maybe you’d pinch them through his clothes.

He’d grind against you for that, too. You’d whimper and cling to his shoulders. One of your thighs inches to the side as if you need him right there between them. He can’t give in yet. Not yet. Though he wants to.

But first, he’d cup your breasts in his hands. He knows they’d feel perfect—nice shape, great size. Your nipples would be hard, your ribcage expanding with your quick breaths. He’d give them a squeeze.

He imagines rutting between your breasts. Your skin oiled and glistening. The sensitive underside of his dick would slide right against your hot, slick chest. He’d hold the sides of your tits as you clutched at his ass.

You’d talk him through it, tell him how much you wanted him, that you thought about him every night.

“Want you to come in me, on me, fill me,” you’d moan. “I don’t care if you knock me up.”

“Holy shit,” he murmurs in the dark. He’s so glad the trailer’s just his now.

“Will you?” you’d ask, your eyes shining and lips painted red. “Will you fuck me hard?”

He’d reply, “Anything ya want.”

You’d grin like some sort of succubus. It makes his dick even harder.

“I want you to come in my mouth.”

He wouldn’t say no. He’d steady your head and guide you down. You lick him first, get him wet, leave waxy, lipstick kisses along the shaft. Then you’d take his cock deep, throat gulping and gripping. You’d suck at it, moan around it. You’d be so sweet to him. He knows his dick’s a lot, though, but you take it.

And take it—until he comes down your throat. Comes so hard his vision nearly whites out.

He’d ease you back and wipe the drool from your chin. “So good, honey,” he’d say.

Your lipstick would be a mess, your cheeks damp with tears. He’d pull you to your feet and kiss you like he hasn’t kissed anyone in so long.

* * *

It’s a slow Tuesday evening. Typical for Duck Tape. Feet thump across the deck before the door opens. A party of five—he can tell they’re related—comes in and loiters by the bar. He greets them and invites them to sit. They hem and haw until you burst through the door, an apology on your lips.

He accidentally makes his prosthetic’s fingers curl. The sound of it grates under the crooning of Patsy Cline. His first instinct is to hide his arm behind his body, but nobody’s paying him any mind.

You smile at him and announce that Mellie recommended Duck Tape. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, but he grins and states the food’s pretty good. It’s nothing fancy, but the cook knows what he’s doing.

“I hear it’s the same for you,” you say.

He shrugs. “I do alright.”

The eldest gentleman of the party points out a table beyond the billiard area, and everyone agrees. They order drinks—simple things he doesn’t need to put much thought to.

After being served, they tip and meander to the table one by one. Except you. You stay and explain the party’s your family: parents, aunt and uncle, cousin. You ask after him, how he likes the haircut.

He tries not to remember how your fingers felt in his hair, how you never mentioned his ridiculous ears, how you complimented him.

“It’s good,” he answers. “It don’t have that new-cut look.”

You beam at him, and your eyes sparkle. “You look nice.”

“Well, I guess that’s a testament to your skills, then.”

“I don’t know about that.” You take a sip of your drink. “You already looked nice when you stepped in.”

His cheeks heat. “Thank ya. You too.”

You seem flattered by that, but he’s just stating the truth. You’re real pretty. Either at work, in jeans and comfortable shoes, or now, with your makeup done up and a cute dress on.

You knock your knuckles on the bar— _maybe a nervous habit?_ —and excuse yourself. He tells you a waitress will be over soon to take the table’s order. You smile again and thank him.

He watches you walk and tries not to be obvious about it. Your ass sways, and he wonders what kind of underwear you got on. He directs his attention to wiping down the bar when you take the empty seat by your mother. He has a feeling it’s going to be a long shift.

And he’s right, because he has to keep himself occupied so he doesn’t stare. And he’s wrong, because you and your family only stay for an hour after eating.

You stop by on the way out, and he asks how everything was. You throw him that beautiful smile again as you wax lyrical about the loaded nachos. You must have a little bit of a buzz on. It’s very charming.

“Are you workin’ this weekend?” you ask.

“I am.”

“Cool, I’ll stop by.”

He meets your eyes. “You’re always welcome.”

You softly say good-night then, taking a step or two backwards before turning for the door. He stares after you until you’re long gone. He wants to follow you out, see which car is yours. If you drove, of course. Maybe memorize your license-plate number and find out where you live…

 _That’s weird,_ he mentally reprimands himself.

Later, he thinks about following you out to the parking lot. Your family would be gone by then. He’d pull you behind the building, where it’s all dry clay and gravel, and force you against the dirty wall. He’d silence your questions with kisses. He couldn’t answer them, anyway.

You’d melt and kiss him back and pull him in closer. He thinks you’d writhe between him and the wall. You’d feel so good against him. Your tongue, faintly tasting of liquor, would tease his.

He’d fist the fabric at your hips until he could touch your thighs. Maybe there’d be the silkiest peach fuzz there. _So feminine._ He’d slip his hands behind you to feel your ass, discovering you’re wearing a thong. He’d bet your ass would fit just right in his hands, and he’d massage the globes as he ground against you.

You’d moan and break the kiss. You’d arch your back, and his fingertips would be right in the warm crease. Your hands would hold onto his hair as your breasts pillow against his chest.

He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He’d have to pull the strip of fabric to the side. He’d have to know if you were wet. He needs to know your heat. He wants to feel the little furl of your asshole and then dip his fingers into your pussy.

Would you make a shocked noise? He’d love to hear it—a high, breathy thing—barely above a whisper. And right in his ear.

Your pussy would be wet and ready, easily taking two of his fingers.

“Tha’s it, honey, almost ready.”

You’d squeeze around his fingers and make him groan. You’d beg for him, your voice going husky as he pumped his fingers. He’d circle his wet fingers around your asshole, too. He’d promise to fill your every hole with come. He’ll make you his, kiss you all over, eat you out until you couldn’t take it anymore.

He’d hoist you against the wall with his hands under your ass. Your strong thighs would wrap around his waist, your hands balling his shirt. He doesn’t remember unzipping his jeans, but his cock nestles right in your slit. He’d move you back and forth until you stiffen in his arms. He knows what that means, and he’ll stop.

 _“Clyde!”_ you’d whisper. _“Please!”_

You’d lick your lips, gnaw at them. You’d struggle to get more, but you can’t. You’re helpless in his arms.

“Kiss me,” he’d say, and you do.

You yank his hair and shove your tongue in his mouth. You bite his bottom lip and suck at it.

His dick pulses in his hand from the very thought.

He holds his hand still and imagines sliding into you. If he had two hands, he’d use them now to fuck into. God, he knows you’d feel better, but this’ll do. You’d be slick and creamy and velvety and so hot, taking him all the way.

He’d crush your body to the wall and pound into you. Yes, he’d _pound_ you, _fuck_ you. His balls would slap against you. He’d take you like that, damn anyone who might hear the rhythmic thud of his thrusts.

He’d lick the sweat from your neck and grip you hard. Your pussy would be pulsating around him as you muffled your moans in his shirt. You’d gush around him and claw at his shoulders.

He can’t get enough. He just wants to sink his whole body into you. He needs to know how your skin feels, what your come tastes like, what your gasps sound like.

Everything suddenly tightens. His hips jerk, and he lets his head fall back. His balls draw up. Then his dick is throbbing and spurting. He shakes through orgasm, feeling the heavy spatter of come on his belly, chest, and even his chin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes and slumps against the bed.

* * *

He takes his first twenty of Saturday night with Earl on the deck. It’s a nice night with a steady breeze, and the stars are shining. The jukebox is loud enough to hear out here, and a song by Santana just started.

Earl tells him about this fancy SUV someone brought in to the shop a few days ago. It had all the bells and whistles: V6 engine, nav system, cameras, air ionizer, and leather seats.

Earl’s raspy voice says over the music, “Damn thing nearly drives itself.”

He grunts with interest.

“I swear, you could steer it with one finger.”

He snorts. “Sounds mighty convenient.”

Earl chuckles and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. “It’s mighty tempting, gettin’ one of those.”

“Well, ya got the money now.”

They smirk at each other just as a car pulls into the parking lot. It’s an unassuming thing. Earl comments that he thinks he knows it. Clyde adjusts in his seat as the driver parks and steps out. While he might not know the car, he is familiar with the driver: you.

He can’t stop the zing of pleasure along with a new restlessness. He sits up and glances at his shirt to make sure it’s properly tucked. Earl clears his throat and pats at his coveralls for his cigarettes.

“I think I left my other pack in the truck,” Earl mumbles before standing and shuffling down the stairs.

Earl greets you and raises a hand. You wave back with a smile, obviously acquainted. When you turn to him, though, your face lights up the night.

“Evenin’,” he says and keeps himself from popping to his feet.

You ascend the couple of stairs. _“Hey.”_

You stand there for a second until he realizes he should’ve invited you to sit. He gestures to the seat next to him with a _“please.”_

“You don’t mind?” you ask as you sit.

“‘Course not.”

Earl dawdles by his truck, pointedly minding his own business.

“So,” Clyde begins. “How was your week?”

“Eh, okay.” You lift a shoulder. “Tuesday was the highlight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I got to see you, didn’t I?”

His cheeks heat. _“Oh.”_ He hopes the shadows hide his blush. “I, uh… I liked that, too. Seein’ ya, that is.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d like to see ya again.”

“Not just here?”

He meets your eyes and finally breathes. “Not just here.”

He sneaks a glance at your lips. They look juicy. He guesses you got some kind of gloss on. He likes it.

You say, “Maybe we can go to that new barbecue place in Turtle Creek?”

He nods. “I’d love that, honey.”

You smile. Your eyes twinkle like someone placed stars in them. You really are too pretty.

In a move that shows how much braver you are than him, you take his flesh hand in both of yours and hold it on your thigh. It makes him tremble. He hopes you can’t feel it. The rest of him is numb. Your skin is smooth, your touch firm and unflinching. He hopes you never let go.

He softly says, “I reckon I’ll need your number, then.”

“I reckon you do,” you agree with a squeeze of his hand.

He grins and curls his fingers around your palm.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com)


End file.
